Once a year a sleepy Derbyshire town awakens to two days of
licensed mayhem

It's a brisk, wet morning in Ashbourne, England, and the pint of ale
being poured by the bartender at the Green Man pub has the tawny tint of an
heirloom watch. He pushes the glass to a burly yob in a ripped rugby sweater
who shouts, "To Up'ards!" At the other end of the bar a doughty yob
whose T-shirt sports a snarling British bulldog raises a pint the lovely walnut
color of fine old furniture. "To Down'ards!" he barks.

These yobs are not toasting Midlands pharmaceuticals but rather
Royal Shrovetide Football, an ancient game that annually pits Ashbournians from
north of the River Henmore against their counterparts down under. A sort of
eight-hour rolling brawl, it's a cross between rugby, soccer and civil war.

Every Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday in this Georgian market
town, hundreds of players lock themselves into an enormous scrum--or hug--then
kick and squirm their way through narrow streets, fishponds and irate
gardeners' flower beds. In a series of hard-fought scrimmages that are
beautifully brainless if not heroic, the grunting, tussling, spluttering tangle
of arms and legs scrambles for possession of a 3 1/2-pound, cork-filled leather
ball.

There are no referees, no penalties and no holds barred. People
have been known to crack ribs and break legs--and that's just the spectators.
Fierce private fistfights flare up about every three minutes. "Shrovetide
football is called a friendly game," said Mark Heath, one of the dozens of
bobbies on hand for this year's festivities, "but it's really about
settling old scores."

Rules are few: Churchyards or cemeteries are off-limits; the ball
cannot be conveyed by a motorized vehicle; play must end by 10 p.m., regardless
of whether either side has scored; manslaughter is strictly prohibited. In the
old days the goals were two water mills, each a mile and a half from the center
of town. You "goaled" the ball by tapping it three times against the
mill wheel. Eventually the mills were torn down, and in 1920 stone posts were
erected--in the Henmore. To goal the ball, you have to get soaked.

Similar games are played in towns throughout the British Isles--in
Kirkwall, on Scotland's Orkney Island, it's called the Ba' Game and takes place
each Christmas and New Year's Day; the Cornish towns of St. Ives and St. Columb
come out for Hurling the Silver Ball. Though the origin of such
contests is strongly disputed, many believe they date from before the Norman
Conquest and that the ball was originally a head, tossed to the crowd after a
public execution. In 1314 Edward II tried to ban the competitions
from London; 35 years later Edward III attempted to outlaw the game altogether
because it was disturbing his archery practice. In the 16th century Philip
Stubbs described Shrovetide football as "bloody murdering practice, rather
than a fellowly sport or pastime." Indeed, the Ashbourne event was briefly
banned in 1878 after a man drowned, and 18 landowners signed a notice
forbidding the game to take place on their property.

Still, the sport survived and even prospered, and when the Prince
of Wales, later Edward VIII, tossed out the ball (called "turning
up") at the opening ceremony in 1928, the event officially earned the
designation Royal Shrovetide Football. Prince Charles was enlisted as royal
turn-up for this year's Ash Wednesday game but begged off to attend the funeral
of his aunt Princess Margaret.

In the hours before this year's Shrove Tuesday match, shopkeepers
boarded their windows in fearful anticipation of the mayhem about to erupt.
Just after noon some 400 locals gathered at the Green Man for the traditional
pregame meal of tomato soup, roast beef and boiled potatoes. They sang the
Shrovetide Song, the chorus of which goes: “It's a good old game, Deny it who
can, That tries the pluck of an Englishman.”

By 2 p.m. the diners had reassembled at a nearby parking lot,
where the turn-upper, local dignitary Simon Plumbly, stood on a plinth and
lobbed the ball above the heads of a mass of waiting players, their voices
joined in a primal roar. A knot of the 50 bravest swallowed up the ball, while
another 200 pushed and pulled on the fringes. From then on, the brightly
colored ball was rarely seen, lost beneath the flailing-limbed carnage of the
heaving hug. You could follow the ball's progress by watching the steam rise
off players in the middle of the scrum.

The sea of writhing bodies flowed ponderously through fields and
alleys, rocking and nearly tipping a television van in its path. For long
minutes the players piled up, unmoving, then suddenly hurtled off in a new
direction. After two hours of slipping and scrambling in an unsteady rain, the
Up'ards finally surged upward toward their goal. At 9 p.m. they rumbled down
the slip at Sturston Mill and hit the water amid wild cheers from the citizens
of upper Ashbourne. Forty minutes of splashing later, a tree surgeon named Kirk
Maskell goaled the winning ball.

It was yet another downer for the Down'ards, who have had one
victory in the last 11 matches. Things did not go much better for them on Ash
Wednesday. They drove the ball to the town's main drag, Church Street, past
Hotspur & Nimrod antiques, Wigley's Shoes, the Ashbourne Gingerbread Shop,
Nigel's Top Quality Butcher and M.J. Smyllie Greengrocer & Florist. But the
Up'ards regained the upper hand, and by 5 p.m. the ball was back at the parking
lot, where it pretty much stayed. The Wednesday game ended in a draw.

News of yet another Down'ard disappointment delighted Doug Sowter,
the sport's Benedict Arnold. Since his grandfather Sam scored in 1898, Sowters
have accounted for 17 Shrovetide goals. All but the last were for the
Down'ards. Doug's infamous 1972 goal remains a blot on the family escutcheon.

He was leaving for the Green Man that year when his Up'ard-born
mum asked, "If you get a chance, will you goal me a ball for the
Up'ards?" Doug's fateful reply: "Sure." As often happens in
these tales, Doug got a chance and ran with it. Everyone expected him to head
for the Down'ard goal. "Instead," he recalls, "I headed for the
Up'ard's." He jumped into the river and tapped the stone three times.

Doug's dad, who had goaled in 1925, '31 and '48, wouldn't speak to
him for a fortnight. His aunt, Tet Sowter, refused to speak to him or his
father ever again. In the 30 years of Shrovetide since, Sowter has endured
hundreds of score-settling kicks and dozens of purposeful punches. Where do the
blows land? He gives a lopsided grin and says, "See this nose?"